“Thank God you shaved,” Jen says, appraising Stephen with a critical eye. “It’s a party at the putt-putt course, so we need you looking as clean-cut as possible without being a Ken doll.”

“I think I have a pastel pink sweater at home,” Rowan contributes, stacking boxes of cupcakes. His tone is just as sly and cheerful as ever but something in his expression puts Stephen off.

For the last two days, Rowan has seemed…as close to unhappy as Stephen has ever seen him. He’s been a little more withdrawn. Is it because he only has a week and a few days left? They haven’t exactly talked about longevity in their relationship, despite that they’ve been kind of dating and spending every work day and most evenings together. Not to mention the fact they’ve now had sex twice, one instance of which was clear-minded and slow.

“Stephen,” Jen says, as if it’s the millionth time—and it could be, for all the attention Stephen is giving her. “Come on. Pay attention—you need to find Erica at the party and let her know you’re there. I can’t reach her and she never gave me a definite answer on whether the cupcakes are a surprise or not.”

“Isn’t our cover kind of blown if I show up? People know me,” Stephen points out, dusting flour off his jeans.

“Why don’t I find this Erica,” Rowan offers, waving a hand, but Jen cuts him off.

“You don’t know her and we can’t risk you talking to the wrong person. Take your time, all right? The inspector will be at the shop in half an hour and I have enough employees in to triple-check everything. Now go, the both of you, before you’re late.”

Jen rushes them out the back door, helping with a few boxes, and then Stephen and Rowan are piled into Stephen’s truck.

Do I say something? Stephen starts driving across town, unsure of whether he should drag the topic out of Rowan. He knows he could wait—they both technically have the day off, after this catering event, but he’s a little worried that Rowan will run off after the party to avoid having the conversation. He doesn’t want to make Rowan feel trapped, though, so he decides against bringing anything up, instead waiting for the drive back. At least that’ll give him time. And me, for that matter.

The putt-putt course is probably the second-most popular party venue for children in the city. Most of the kids at the party are ten and under, running around with miniature golf clubs while their parents call out in mostly-unconcerned tones for them to slow down. The families are all upper-middle class, with kind demeanors and somewhat expensive cars that are all freshly washed.

“I’ll be right back,” Stephen promises, gazing around the gaggle of adults before ducking out of the truck. Rowan doesn’t say anything.

Erica is easily visible. She’s in her late thirties, with cascading waves of blonde hair and a sharp smile. She’s divorced, which would probably be a deterrent on any other woman in her neighborhood, but she’s practically the queen of her cul-de-sac. Erica seems to have hit her second wind after divorcing; she even makes running after her eleven-year-old twins look effortless. What I wouldn’t give to have ended up like that, Stephen thinks drily.

“Hey, Erica,” Stephen smiles, sliding carefully behind her as she listens to two other women talk about potted succulents.

“Stephen,” Erica smiles, all teeth. Her black-rimmed eyes have almost no traces of wrinkles. “Darling, it’s been too long. I’m so pleased that Jen sent you.” She air-kisses him as if bestowing blessings on him.

“I’m supposed to ask if the cupcakes are a surprise,” Stephen volunteers, “although I doubt they could be anymore, since I’m here.”

“Oh, it’s fine, no surprise,” Erica laughs gaily. Her gaze wanders, taking in the crowd. “I…wait, who’s in your car?”

“Oh,” Stephen says dumbly, suddenly realizing he’s going to have to introduce Rowan. Keep it simple. Be natural. You chat with people every day at the bakery. It’s the same. Just the same.“That’s my, uh...he's Rowan. Rowan is Jen’s cousin.”

“Does Jen know you and her cousin are doing the horizontal tango?”

“Erica!”

“I’m joking, honey,” Erica smiles, eyes twinkling, “I won’t spill the sauce. It’s too good. This is all for me,” she adds, waving her hand over his probably flustered expression. Damn it.

“Right. Well, we have cupcakes. Where do you want them?”

“Table, dear. The one with the pink tablecloth.”

Stephen nods, wordless, and slips back to the truck. He wonders if his and Rowan’s relationship is so obvious to everyone. He can see Rowan staring at him before quickly breaking eye contact, pretending to glance down at his phone. Stephen opens the backseat door, preparing to pull out a few boxes, and Rowan raises his eyebrows in question.

“No birthday surprise,” Stephen says, shrugging. “Erica’s great, but she’s only human. Especially since she has twins. Allison and Milton are definitely smart kids. Jordi was kind of like Allison when she was younger, so I get déjà vu sometimes.”

“You know them well,” Rowan says, less of a question and more of a statement. Stephen can’t tell how Rowan feels about the fact.

“Yeah. Erica’s divorced—she came out of it better than before, though. I used to run into her at the bar. She only ever had one drink—she’d test herself to see how many guys she could pick up without ever actually taking any back home.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s a riot. And has a good heart. Did a lot to try and help me get on my feet—not that I took it, ungrateful moron that I was—but she’s never stopped sending me Christmas cards. Always with an ironic message.”

“You really do know everyone, don’t you?” Rowan asks, closing the car door with his foot as he starts to walk with boxes piled four high in his arms.

“I guess,” Stephen says, unable to shrug with his armload. “The table with the pink tablecloth.”

They set up the boxes quickly, hanging around to wait for Erica as she’s busy talking with other parents. As soon as they get the okay from her, they will be free. Not that Stephen is rushing—he really does know most of the people at the party, either through work or through Erica. They’re good people, with common concerns and uncommon personalities. He’s just about to steal Erica from a chatty woman when someone slips in between him and Rowan. Oh, no.

“Stephen! I almost didn’t recognize you, all cleaned up and pretty,” the woman beams as if she’s in a toothpaste commercial. Stephen can see Rowan over the woman’s shoulder, looking vaguely put off and confused.

“Oh, hi…” What’s her name? All he can remember about her is her persistence and the way she’d tried to dig her claws into him at a PTA meeting he catered for Erica last spring.

“Josie! You silly thing, I can’t believe you forgot,” she laughs, slapping him weakly on the arm as if they’re sharing an intensely private joke. Please make this stop. “Our conversation was so memorable!”

It really wasn’t, Stephen thinks, trying to find a way out of the conversation. He can tell Rowan has a tiny smug smile and Stephen tries to glare at him, broadcasting a help. The other man finally takes pity on him, inserting himself into the conversation.

“Excuse me,” Rowan says smoothly, “but we need to speak to the host. So many deliveries to tend to, you know?”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Josie smiles, calculated but not rude. “You don’t need Stephen—”

“Actually, I do,” Rowan says, an edge creeping into his tone. “He’s actually the most important person at the shop, other than Jen. He knows way more than I do—I’m just temporary help. If anyone needs to talk to Erica, it’s him. If you need a conversation partner, though, I’d be glad to step in.”

Stephen blinks. Well. Even Josie seems a little flustered, thrown for a loop by the clear rebuke. She’s still grasping for words when Stephen excuses Rowan and himself from the conversation, ducking away towards Erica.

“Thanks for defending my honor—” Stephen starts, feeling a laugh burble up in his throat.

“Oh, shut up,” Rowan hisses, but some of his smile has returned and he doesn’t look as unhappy as before. “I would’ve jumped into the sand pit to get away from her.”

“You’re such a social butterfly.”

Rowan sticks out his tongue and Stephen grins, pulling the man closer with a careful hand on his shoulder as they walk towards Erica. When Rowan doesn’t immediately pull away, he feels a tiny seed of triumph. Erica seems to notice them making a beeline for her and she gracefully exits her conversation, waving red-lacquered nails before sidling up to Stephen and Rowan.

“Hello, Rowan, isn’t it?” she beams, teeth perfectly white. Rowan looks nervous.

“She’s only half-wolf,” Stephen snorts, nudging Rowan, “She won’t bite.”

“Much,” Erica adds, extending a hand to Rowan. “You’re Jen’s cousin. She’s lovely.”

“When she’s not making you jump from trees, yes,” Rowan says drily. Erica pauses for a moment before laughing brightly, bumping Stephen with her hip.

“I like him. Good job.”

“Oh—wh—I—” Rowan starts, fumbling his words, a flush starting to rise in his face. He looks panicked as he glances at Stephen, worried.

“Thank you,” Stephen says simply, “but he’s the persistent one.”

Even out of the corner of his eye, he can almost see the tension melting away from Rowan like an ice cube in the summer. Whatever has been bothering Rowan seems to dissolve, giving way to a pleasant blush and smile. Maybe this will work after all. They say goodbye to Erica, taking a generous tip and hot dogs in a Tupperware container that she passes with a flourish, and then they’re on their way again, climbing into the truck as children swarm the cupcakes.

“Something was bothering you, right?” Stephen asks as he pulls out into lunchtime traffic, taking his time. He glances at Rowan, who looks a little conflicted but nowhere near as down as he did before.

“Melissa came in a few days ago. She said she really did want to help you get better,” Rowan admits.

“I mean…sure. She kind of always has, whether it’s been deserved or not,” Stephen frowns.

“Yes, but…she kind of…I don’t know. It seemed like she missed whatever you used to have. In college, or whenever. Before.”

“So do I, but it’s not as if I could go back,” Stephen raises an eyebrow, “Neither of us are the same. She knows that.”

“But if you could—if she wanted to try again—wouldn’t you?”

That’s what it was? Stephen stops at a red light, feeling his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He can’t even properly imagine what it is Rowan is suggesting. Rowan’s still waiting for his answer, though, a sort of resigned look set into his features.

“No,” Stephen emphasizes slowly, feeling a tiny bit of disbelief when Rowan looks surprised. “We’re honestly not great as a couple. Friends, definitely, and we work okay as a parental team, but not married. No. I mean, it wasn’t terrible by any means, but neither of us got what we wanted.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Stephen snorts, “You realize that most people don’t remarry their exes, and if they do most of those unions probably end in divorce. Again. There’s a reason for that.”

“It was an honest question,” Rowan grumbles.

“I know,” Stephen grins, glancing over at Rowan. He feels a little warm. He was actually worried. He cared enough to think about it. “You know, we’re both off—why don’t we—”

“We’re ordering takeout,” Rowan interrupts, raising his eyebrows, “I’ve been dying for some Chinese and the place I used to love closed. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen says, a smile fighting its way onto his face as he tries to keep an even expression, “That depends on how much we order.”

“Better make it extra, then,” Rowan smirks, “You’ll need leftovers for lunch tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

They barely make it into Stephen’s house before Rowan is pulling Stephen’s shirt off. Stephen laughs, trying to help Rowan with his clothes, and they somehow stumble towards the living room instead of the stairs and land on the couch. Stephen isn’t mad about it.

“How did you ever manage to stay in shape? Your aunt and uncle ran a bakery,” Stephen marvels, tasting Rowan’s skin. Rowan isn’t a bodybuilder by any means but his chest is nicely firm, the slope of his stomach perfect and sensitive to Stephen’s touch.

“Running,” Rowan gasps, arching as Stephen nips at his side. “From Jen. A lot of running from Jen.”

“Hmm. Remind me to thank her,” Stephen murmurs, smiling.

He’s done his research since their last time. Not that he’s ignorant about everything; he just wants to make sure he’s doing everything right. He cares about making sure that Rowan is comfortable and, ideally, he doesn’t want Rowan doing the work every time. Stephen is just pulling away Rowan’s jeans when the man starts fishing blindly for something on the floor, a flash of annoyance crossing his features.

“Where’s my jacket?”

“Here?”

“Oh, good,” Rowan breathes, messily turning it inside out before he lets out a little cheer, fishing out two small packets of lubricant. Stephen snickers.

“Did you plan—”

“Hey! Always be prepared!” Rowan grins, waving the packets at Stephen. He’s got a point. Still, Stephen is just a little peeved to have been one-upped when they haven’t even started. He yanks one of the packets open after glancing at the wording, knowing he’s making a mess with the lube but not particularly caring.

Rowan’s grin disappears the moment Stephen presses a finger against him, cautious and nervous. The sigh that escapes Rowan’s lips tells Stephen that he’s doing something right so he continues, gently pushing inside and then pulling out, and again. When Rowan responds positively, breathlessly—“Please...more…,” his face flushed, the color growing with each passing second—Stephen complies, smiling, slipping another finger in. The slower the better, he thinks, despite the rapid pace of his heart. His pulse is thundering in his chest and his cock feels tight and in need of touch but he still moves slowly, concentrating on watching Rowan unravel beneath him. It’s a beautiful sight—there’s no trace of Rowan’s usual composure; instead, all that’s left is flushed skin and lust-filled golden-brown eyes. Rowan keeps trying to move his hips, pushing further, but Stephen presses him down against the couch, teasing him.

“God—please, Stephen, please—you’re torturing me,” Rowan manages, choking on his words.

“Not yet, I’m not,” Stephen smirks, pulling his hand away, and Rowan whines at the loss of contact. “Turn over for me.”

He’s immensely glad that Rowan had everything they need. Stephen would hate to leave Rowan like this to look for a condom—he knows the point is to keep Rowan strung out, one slow touch after another, until they’re both too strained to keep up the waiting. Stephen pushes into Rowan slowly, hoping he’s done enough to prepare him, and he’s greeted with a relieved moan. I just have to go slow, he reminds himself, despite the desperation pooling below his stomach. Slow. It takes all of his strength to move in centimeters; when he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily.

He manages to keep up the pace for a torturous amount of time. He feels pent-up and anxious, every slide hurting as much as it feels good. Stephen knows he won’t be able to last much longer—he’s shocked that he’s been able to go slow for so long. Rowan is already panting, body shaking with the desire to move.

“What do you want me to do?” Stephen asks, stopping in place. His hand wanders along the faint dip of Rowan’s spine.

“I want you to fuck me. Fast,” Rowan gasps, reaching for the arm of the couch as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

I can do that, Stephen thinks. His hand manages to stop at the curve of Rowan’s shoulder, holding the body beneath him with a careful grip. He moves immediately, pushing as fast as he can, and their shocked cries mingle in the air. It’s the truth of a cliché phrase; waiting seems to make it that much better. Rowan shoves his body back against Stephen as fast as Stephen pushes into him, the harsh impact making their pulses pound in time. It lasts even less time than Stephen’s experiment; they both fall over the edge explosively, Rowan’s body arching as Stephen’s hands grip him harder. For a moment, there’s nothing but the red-black rush of orgasm and then they’re both slumped on the couch, sweaty and sore.

“Good, so, so good,” Rowan mumbles into a cushion, blindly reaching behind him for Stephen’s hand.

“Thanks,” Stephen laughs breathlessly, catching Rowan’s hand in a tangle of fingers. He’s bent over him, still inside him. “I spent way too much time preparing.”

“That’s both adorable and amusing,” Rowan says. “I think—um, the food is probably going to get here soon. We should clean up, get dressed.”

“You’re kind of a neat freak, too, huh?” He pulls away from Rowan, immediately missing his warmth, and stands.

Rowan slaps him halfheartedly and Stephen grins, pulling him up from the couch to join him in the bathroom. It’s a good thing we have the day off, he thinks, because I’m not doing anything for the next few hours.

* * *

His phone rings at six in the morning. One hand reaches out blindly and he groans, feeling completely dead to the world and tired. Who the hell is calling me so early? Part of him hopes it’s Rowan—the man left a few hours after their takeout escapade, reluctant but needing fresh clothes and sleep. Stephen was sad to see him go, but knew they’d likely meet the next day since the shop was closed.

“Stephen. Where are you?”

“Melissa? In bed. Where are you?” Stephen asks, confused and tired. His eyes are still closed and his voice is rough.

“There was an accident.”

They’re four words he can’t handle. His ears start ringing as if someone’s struck a giant bell or fired a gun in his bedroom. He jolts upright, feeling sick to his stomach from the motion and the conversation. His heart hammers in his chest. No, no, no—

“What happened? Where is she?” he’s already tearing clothes out of his drawers, mindlessly shoving things on with one hand as he stays on the line.

“It’s—she’s fine, she’s just hurt—I’m sorry, I should have said that first. We’re at the medical center by the college; Austin Medical—”

“I’m on my way,” Stephen says quickly, throwing the bathroom light on as he starts to run water, splashing his face messily to try and clean up before he leaves.

“Stephen, it’s fine, you have work and—”

“I’m on my way,” Stephen repeats, emphasizing every word. “I’ll call you when I get to town.”

It’s an eight-hour drive but he would have made it if it were ten. Or twelve. Or any ridiculous number. All he can think about is Jordi in the hospital. He barely remembers to shove his wallet in his pocket, grabbing a jacket from the couch before he jumps into his truck. He starts driving without a plan, knowing only how to get where he needs to go.

She has to be fine, he thinks, she has to.